


L'Anima

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-24 05:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: (Or: As Natural as Breathing)All it takes is a little twist of fate… or something else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes off from [the dustbin scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5S8nAmkXEDA) that was cut out of _BJD_.  
> Much like movies don't get rated in chunks, this 'movie' gets a strong rating for just one scene. It's not overly graphic or explicit, but neither is it glossed over with a fade-to-black to the next scene.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'd probably get locked up if The Powers That Be ever caught wind of my shenanigans.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The pace of his jog was measured and rhythmic as he moved down the darkened streets of London. Evenings when he wasn't working late were the only times he really had available for exercise, and exercise in his stressful line of work was absolutely critical; he preferred the evening anyway to jog, as the streets were usually less crowded. He also preferred the sounds of the street to the sounds of jangly music piped in through headphones, the relative silence welcome in counterpoint to his busy and often noisy day. He could usually count on having this time for contemplation.

Tonight was not to be one of those nights.

He rounded the corner onto Bedale Street and was met with a vision he could barely make sense of: dressed only in a bath towel (possibly also a robe) with a short grey coat over top, two large curlers on one side of her head, and a relatively nice pair of legs that were rather difficult not to notice, was a woman standing on a stack of wooden pallets and apparently digging through three communal dustbins. He quickly realised she was no transient, but someone he knew, a woman who he had met with disastrous results the previous New Year's Day. He stopped short, regarding her probably with more scrutiny than was necessary; after all, he was himself wearing an outfit best suited for his current endeavour.

"Hello," he said abruptly, startling her.

She looked up with a start, her expression falling and an "Oh God" coming involuntarily out of her mouth.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

She pulled the halves of her coat together tightly around herself. "Yup," she said nonchalantly. "Super."

He furrowed his brow, looking from her to the dustbins. "What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for the…" she began, then faltered, adding, "… dustbin to ring."

He tried to keep his features in check. Even in her dishevelled, half-dressed state he had to admit she was pretty… but unfortunately apparently as mad as a hatter. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, not long."

"And do you think it will be ringing soon?" he asked, reaching to scratch the back of his head without conscious thought.

"Yes," she said confidently. "I have high hopes for a phone call in the very near future."

There was a pause, awkward and impossible to fill with conversation, but then as if on cue, a shrill ringing began to sound, coming from the bin nearest to him and startling him; the last thing he'd expected was for a phone to actually start to trill. At this she dove down and began to try to hone in on the sound, delicately moving bags, flats of cardboard and other paper things around trying to locate it. He went closer to the bins and realised it was actually quite near to him; perhaps the sound was echoing strangely and that was why she'd been unable to pinpoint it. He reached for it and instinctively answered it.

"Bridget Jones' phone," he said.

There was a moment of silence before a male voice asked, not without concern, "Is Bridget there?"

"May I tell her who's calling?"

"Colin."

He looked up to her. She looked something between expectant and annoyed. "Someone called Colin," he said, handing her the phone, wondering briefly who this 'Colin' was, but more importantly why her phone was in the dustbin.

"Thank you," she said, taking it from him. She said into the phone, "Hello, thanks…." She turned away to continue her conversation, giving him a very up-close view of her towelled backside before stepping down off the wooden pallets. He could only guess that in her effort to keep her towel and coat closed she didn't judge the distance down very well, and subsequently apparently met the cement with more force than she intended, landing with an audible wince on her right foot. However, she continued talking to Colin. "What?! You're still a very attractive man, and I should know; I'm your daughter." She chuckled. "Thanks." She disconnected the call, then looked at him again, her gaze quite piercing. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome."

She went to step away, but putting any sort of pressure on her foot was obviously causing her distress. She muffled a sharp gasp.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'll be fine." She took another step, and gasped again.

"You aren't fine. Let me help you up to your place."

………

It was not a good night for Bridget; she tried not to think of it as an inauspicious start to a date night with Daniel, one for which she'd been hoping for some time. First her father had dropped in, depressed about the situation with his wife, her mother; Tom had called begging her to find his bloody mobile, which had somehow ended up out in the trash with the newspapers; and now bloody Mark Darcy, with whom her mother had tried to set her up at the New Year, showing up out of nowhere while she looked almost as bad as she could ever expect to look and while digging through the trash bins outside of her building. Plus now a bloody twisted ankle on top of it all…

How was she ever supposed to finish getting ready for her date?

With annoyed determination, she told Mark, "I said I will be fine."

She tried to take another step, and this time the pain was so intense it shot like fire up her leg. She nearly doubled over and cried out despite her best efforts not to.

"I don't think you're fine. Come on, I'll help you inside. You shouldn't put any pressure on it."

He was certainly sympathetic—well, his voice was sympathetic, anyway—and she could hardly expect to be able to climb the stairs herself in this state. Resignedly, she said, "Fine."

"Okay." He put his arm around her waist, she around his. She leaned heavily on him and together, under her direction, they began walking towards her building. She realised two things in very short order: that he really was quite on the tall side, and that he smelled… well, _intriguing_ ; an interesting mix of faded cologne and musky scent from his jogging efforts. It was not in the least bit unpleasant.

The look on his face when she advised him she lived in the top flat was satisfyingly priceless. He practically had to carry her up the stairs, and as they made their way up she realised she was probably going to have to cancel the date. She could not be the epitome of poise and grace while hobbling around on a sore ankle.

"Bridget, I was beginning to worry; who was that on the ph—"

As they entered the apartment, her father stopped short upon seeing his daughter was not alone. He furrowed his brow.

"Hello, Mr Jones," said Mark. "I, um, ran into your daughter on the street."

"Not literally," Bridget supplied quickly, balancing on one foot and slipping out of her grey coat, setting Tom's accursed phone on the table. "I kind of hurt myself getting down from looking through the dustbin. Mark offered to help me up."

"Mark," said Colin Jones with some measure of relief. "That was lucky of you, my dear. You'll be okay?" With Mark's and her father's assistance she settled down on the sofa, careful to keep the towel arranged to cover her.

She glanced at the telephone beside her and sighed. So much for the date with her possible future husband and father of her children. "I'll be okay," she echoed glumly.

"Oh, while you were at the dustbin, someone called. David, I think."

"David?" she asked.

"Maybe it was Darren? Sorry, love, I'm still a bit unfocused, all of this stuff with your mother…."

She felt a cold chill wash over her. "It wasn't Daniel, was it?"

"Yes, yes, that's it. He said he had to work tonight, and that he'd call you later."

She felt forlorn. She hadn't wanted to cancel her date, but at least she'd had a valid reason; Daniel saying he had to work on a Friday night was practically code for 'I've changed my mind.' "Oh."

"Moppet, I have to go; Mum will wonder where I've been, if she's home herself," he said sadly. "You'll be all right?"

She nodded, still feeling a little stunned by the rejection, particularly when Daniel had apparently made so much effort to make the date. "Fine."

"Love you, my dear," he said, pecking a kiss into her hair. "Thanks for listening."

"You're welcome, Dad. Bye. Thanks again."

She heard footsteps down the stairs, heard the door close. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, sighing heavily.

"You should probably get something on your ankle. It's starting to swell."

Mark's voice startled her; she had assumed he'd gone out when her father had. Her head jerked up and she looked down to her trainer-clad feet stretched out before her. Indeed, the right ankle was noticeably puffier than the left.

"Let's get your shoes off." Mark came around and crouched before her; in response she brought her knees together and clutched the bottom of her towel. He chuckled then reached for her right foot, unlacing the shoe then pulling it off.

………

Her reaction told him that the only thing she was wearing beneath the robe was in fact the towel. "Sorry," he said.

"I don't usually go outside like this," she said defensively. 

He could not help thinking that it was an improvement over the thing he'd last seen her in, the skirt and vest ensemble that had seemingly been constructed of floral upholstery. 

"I'm not an invalid, either," she added as he unlaced the left shoe and pulled it off.

"Oh, I'm certain of both of those things." He stood again. "You should raise your foot."

She looked up at him challengingly. "I'd really like to… put something else on."

She really did not need to—a blanket over her lap would have more than sufficed—but he could understand that perhaps she felt a little vulnerable in her state. "I could help you with that."

Her mouth dropped open. "I can dress myself, thank you very much."

"I meant help you to your room."

She had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry." After a pause, she added, "You don't really have to stay, you know."

"How will you get to your room otherwise?"

"I could crawl," she said defiantly, but not without a little smirk.

At that he laughed, and held out his hand. "To your feet."

She accepted his hand and, clutching the towel closed, rose to an upright position. Again he put his arm about her and she leaned into him with every step on her right foot. "It's just back there," she said gesturing towards the opposite end of the flat.

The scent of her light perfume filled his nose again; it was pretty and playful with hints of citrus and vanilla. That and the curlers in her hair reminded him that she had apparently been preparing for a date, one that had evidently cancelled on her. "So," he asked, "who's Daniel?"

"That's none of your business."

"I'm just making conversation."

They reached the threshold of her bedroom. She sighed heavily. "I'm getting dressed now."

"Do you need help getting your clothes?"

"I'll be fine." She jumped on her left foot into the room and shut the door.

Leaving him outside her bedroom gave him time to reflect on this very short but meaningful interaction. She was very different from the woman he'd thought she was when they'd first met; feisty and witty, not afraid to say what she was thinking, and certainly attractive. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts that day that he had not at all been fair to her. He owed her a huge apology.

A few minutes later the door opened again and she seemed surprised at his presence. She was now wearing a heather grey sweatshirt with a university logo upon it and pale blue cotton bottoms that came to mid-calf. Her hair was freed of the two large curlers and was now pulled into a ponytail at the back of her head.

"I wasn't about to let you hobble back to the sofa," he said. "Plus it's much more efficient for me to get you some ice, some ibuprofen, and, I don't know, tea maybe."

"Glass of wine, more like," she muttered as they began the trek back to the living room. As she sat upon the sofa, swinging her legs up to raise her feet, he could see the swelling had gotten worse.

"Ice first," he said, then went to her kitchen, found the ice trays, found a kitchen towel and a plastic food storage bag with a sealing closure, and dumped the contents of one into it. After refilling the ice tray and replacing it into the freezer he brought her the makeshift icepack and set it onto her ankle.

"Thanks," she said, wincing as the cold made contact.

"Ibuprofen in the bathroom?" he asked.

She nodded. He pulled a blanket from the chair and gave it to her, then went to the loo, which they'd passed en route to her bedroom. He quickly found the pain relieving tablets in the medicine cabinet. However, he could not help but note the state of the bathroom itself: stockings and underclothes hanging from the towel racks, presumably to dry; an overflowing ashtray on the edge of the sink; makeup and powder splattered in the sink itself; pile of dirty laundry, smalls included, on the floor… 

Under ordinary circumstances he probably would have found this somewhat revolting—it was not that much harder to aim for the laundry basket, which was at best half a metre away—but instead, he found it sort of charming. In fact, he realised he found _her_ sort of charming. Unlike other women he met, she was not fawning over him to impress him. She was genuine.

This made him wonder too about the called-off date, what sort of man she would want to try to impress, and what sort of man would put her off to ostensibly work. She likely would have needed to cancel after this injury, but she had obviously been putting a great deal of effort into preparing for it.

He stopped into the kitchen for some water then brought both the glass and the tablets to her. "Thanks," she said as she accepted them, then slugged them back with a large sip of water. "You don't think it's broken, do you?"

"I don't know. I'm a lawyer, not a doctor," he said. "I've played enough five-a-side though. Do you mind?" He indicated her ankle. She shook her head. He sat at her feet, slipped away the ice pack, took her calf in his hand. Her ankle, aside from being a little swollen, did not look misshapen or discoloured. "Did you hear it make any sound when you landed?" She shook her head. "And were you able to put your weight on it?"

She nodded. "It hurt, though."

He touched the ice-chilled skin, pressing down into the swelling. "Does that hurt?" He glanced up to catch her nodding, flinching at the pressure. "Does it hurt when I'm not poking it?"

"Not severely, just… achy."

"Can you move your ankle without pain?"

She flexed her foot then pointed it. "Not much."

"But you _can_ move it." He set her foot down again. "Well, I don't think it's broken. I'm not even sure it's a true sprain. I think it's just annoyed."

She looked relieved and grateful, and she smiled, her own annoyance much reduced. "I thought you said you weren't a doctor."

"Well, spend enough time playing football…" He smiled, then got to his feet. "Shall I make you some tea, then?"

She looked up to him. "Sure. You know, you didn't really have to stay, but don't think I'm not appreciative for the help, both with the mobile and my gimpy ankle."

"You're welcome," he said with a grin.

"Thank you," she added, tinting pink.

Deciding he wanted some as well, he went and put the kettle on, quickly finding her mugs and tea. As he glanced around her homey kitchen, it brought to mind that he still needed to make amends for his ill-spoken words on New Year's Day. Since the water had yet to heat, he went back into the living room. No time like the present.

"Find everything okay?" she asked.

He nodded, then paced a little, trying to find the right words. "You know, Bridget, I never got the chance to apologise for the unkind comment I made on New Year's, and this seems the perfect opportunity to start again. It wasn't fair of me to lash out like that when I was in a foul mood for reasons wholly unconnected to you, and I'm sorry."

She regarded him with a mixture of surprise and scepticism. "So I'm not a verbally incontinent spinster?"

"You say what you're thinking," he said, "and that's a nice change of pace." He heard the water begin to boil, so he asked, "Milk? Sugar?"

"Black's fine."

He nodded, then fixed two mugs of tea, bringing them back into the living room. He glanced around himself, really taking in the place; it was not huge by any standard, but it was very cosy and pleasant to be in, comfortable and warm, colourfully decorated and filled with personality. True, it was a bit on the messy side, but it occurred to him that there was something to be said for the warmth a little untidiness could bestow.

"Thank you," she said, taking the mug from his hands, looking rather disconsolate. "And apology accepted."

………

She watched as he took the chair, realised she had been terribly wrong about this man; how kind it had been for him to go out of his way to help her after hurting herself, putting together an icepack for her, fetching her tea… terribly wrong indeed. It made her feel even worse on top of being stood up.

"So is your boyfriend coming 'round later?"

Mark's question startled her from her thoughts. "Boyfriend?"

"This Daniel person."

She snorted a laugh. "He's not my boyfriend. He's my boss," she said, feeling even more pathetic than before. "This was supposed to be our first date, but… well, you heard what my dad said about saying he was working."

"On a Friday night?" he asked.

"Pretty transparent excuse, I know." She sighed, then sipped her tea. 

"I'm sorry," he said, and it seemed genuine.

"Oh well," she said, shrugging a little. It had been nice to imagine that Daniel had wanted to take her on a date, at least for a little while. "I'm sorry for throwing a wrench into your plans for the evening. I'm sure you had no intentions on playing nursemaid to a klutz."

He smiled, chuckling a little. "It's been a pleasure," he said.

He sat there drinking his tea, and as she drew from her own cup again, she could only think how a little dishevelment did him a world of good; his brown locks were tousled, his jogging apparel wrinkled, so very different from his previous immaculate grooming… not to mention how nice it had been to have his arm around her again, surrounded by his warmth and scent, even if he had only been helping her to her room and back.

"Do you need anything else?"

"Hm?" she asked, lowering her cup once more.

"More ice? Something to eat?"

Her telephone rang. He looked to it as if it had started participating in their conversation on its own.

"You could get that for me," she said with a grin. With a nod he rose from his seat, setting his mug down on the table as he reached for the phone. Maybe it was Daniel; maybe he would be full of apologies and promises to come over and take care of her like Mark had done….

She expected him to pick up the cordless telephone receiver and hand it to her; she did not expect him to press the button to answer it, then say into the receiver, "Bridget Jones' phone," though perhaps she should have given what had happened at the bins. She watched his features cloud over. "Who's calling?" After a pause, his eyes flashed to her, imbued with confusion, almost betrayal. "No, I don't think that's a good idea at all." Another pause. "Yes, actually, it is. And I think it best if you don't call her again." He hung up with no small amount of force, shocking her.

"Why the hell are you—?" she asked hotly before he looked to her again; the fire in his eyes silenced her, as did the ice in his voice when he spoke. 

"You didn't tell me your boss was Daniel Cleaver."

"What does that matter?"

He blinked, then sighed, running his hand over his face. "Sorry," he said, his temper cooling. He sat again, this time on the sofa just next to her legs, apparently without thought. "I don't suppose you'd know, would you?" He turned and met her gaze again; she felt an odd foreboding. "We were best mates. He was my best man. Then I caught him with my wife on Christmas Eve."

Her mouth dropped open in her surprise. "You're joking," she said, which she realised belatedly was not the most appropriate thing to say.

"I wish I were," he said, his eyes going steely again. "Truly, Bridget, if he cancelled on you tonight, you should consider yourself lucky."

She looked down at her tea, now nearly empty, and realised as much as she fancied Daniel, as funny, as clever and as damn sexy as he was, she'd always known he'd always been a bit of a cad; now she knew him to be an outright bastard. She really had no reason to think Mark was lying. "I'm sorry for that," she said.

"It's been a few years, but when the season comes 'round it sort of pokes at the wound."

His earlier comment suddenly made sense. "Oh. That's what had you in such a bad mood on New Year's."

Mark nodded, then looked to his hands. "Tonight was the first I'd talked to him since… then."

She took that last sip, reached and set her tea cup on the floor beside her. She then sat up and placed her right hand on his. "I'm really sorry," she said. 

He looked to her again; he tried to disguise it, but he still had that sort of beaten puppy dog look about him. "Thanks."

At that moment she knew he needed more than a comforting touch on the back of his hand. She leaned further forward and took his hand in both of hers, cradling it gently. "I'm sorry," she said again softly, then rested her head on his upper arm. "I wish there was more I could do to help."

She brought her left arm up around his back for a sort-of hug, felt him shift a little to accept it more easily. She closed her eyes, splayed her fingers on his back, took in a deep breath… and realised she _really_ liked the way he smelled.

………

The demi-embrace took him completely by surprise, but he was not displeased by it. He was, in fact, almost as surprised by how nice it felt to simply be held, and how much he realised he needed the comfort. He leaned into her a little more, felt her fingers on his back tracing in gentle arcs.

"Hope this helps at least a little," she said.

He took in a breath; her hair was against his cheek, soft and tickling the skin there. "Mm-hm."

She squeezed his hand then pulled back, smiling proudly as she rested back upon the arm of the settee-style sofa. "There you are."

He met her eyes again and smiled too. "Thank you, Bridget."

"You're welcome."

He glanced down for a moment at the track suit. "Even though I'm not at my, er, best," he added, somewhat sheepishly, then chuckled.

Her smile softened. "You're fine. No worse than myself."

"So," he said, clearing his throat, attempting to also clear his head of the sudden swirl of thoughts about her and return focus to attending her injury. "Think it's time to take the ice off your ankle for a bit."

A little sound came up that startled him, one that made her blush and laugh as she covered her stomach with her hand. "Sorry. I'm a little hungry. That was supposed to have been a dinner date, tonight," she said.

"I could make something to eat."

"I'm afraid we're limited to maybe pasta."

"That's fortunate," he said. "That's something I'm very good at making."

After placing the icepack back into the freezer, he set out to locate the necessary items to make a nice dinner of pasta and tomato sauce. Her kitchen pantry was not terribly well stocked; a mishmash of muesli, spices and the promised pasta, as well as biscuits, some tinned foods and crackers. In the end, though, he was successful. He brought her the television remote, and while he got a pot of water to boiling and dug out a tin of diced tomatoes and a saucepan, she switched on the telly, surfing around a bit before settling on what was perhaps a nature show or something similar; he chuckled to himself at the oddly domestic bent to the evening.

"More tea?" he asked just as supper preparation was concluding, bringing her icepack back to her.

"Maybe wine? I was sort of not kidding before," she said.

"Oh, not with the ibuprofen, Bridget," he said.

He swore she pouted.

Dinner itself was quite pleasant indeed; she turned the channel to one showing _Citizen Kane_. He had seen it before, but to view it with her was quite enjoyable, with her unique commentary and insights.

"So," she said. "If his last words were 'Rosebud,' and he was alone when he died, how did anyone know what he said?"

He paused in mid-chew to ponder her words, then smiled, swallowed and began to laugh. "You know, that never occurred to me."

When they finished he gathered their plates and took them to the kitchen. She asked him to switch the light off, and after settling down in the chair they watched the rest of the film in relative quiet. There was nothing uncomfortable about it at all, which, in Mark's opinion, was quite a turn around from earlier that evening.

He realised it was probably about time to take the icepack off again, and turned to her intending on saying so when he saw she had fallen to sleep. Gingerly he removed the icepack from her ankle, placed it back in the freezer, went back to her and covered her foot with the blanket. He looked to her, looked to the television, trying to decide whether or not he should go. He felt kind of strange staying any longer when she'd gone to sleep, and there was no point in waking her so she could go to her bed. On the other hand, he didn't like thinking of leaving her on her own in case she needed something, not to mention that he wouldn't feel right not being able to properly lock the door behind himself.

_Well_ , he thought, sitting in the chair once more, _not much left of the film. Might as well watch and then decide._

………

The combination of a dull throb thudding in her ankle, a rather full bladder and a rise in ambient light in the room conspired to wake Bridget from slumber. Blearily she opened her eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them, realising she must have dozed off during the film; the telly, low in volume, was now airing Saturday morning programming, news talking heads arguing over something undoubtedly stupid. The remote was still at her side, so she raised it and hit the power button to turn it off.

She pushed herself to an upright position far enough to flip the edge of the blanket back. Her right ankle, though still slightly swollen, looked much improved over the night before. She smiled, thinking how nice Mark Darcy had been to care for her; she really had been wrong about him, and everything he'd done seemed to have helped immensely. She thought her foot might even be fine to walk on.

_No time like the present_ , she thought. _The loo calls._

She swung her legs over the edge of the sofa and was about to rise when it occurred to her that she was not alone in the room.

In the chair at her feet, bowed over so that his head was resting on one folded elbow on the arm, was her caretaker of the night before. Her first thought was that it had been terribly nice of him to stay, although totally unnecessary; her second thought was of how dreadfully uncomfortable he must have been hunched over like that. Probably even cold.

Tentatively she got to her feet; while sore, walking was not nearly as painful as it had been the night before. She certainly could walk unassisted now. She went over to him, pulling the blanket from the sofa up and over his legs, which were extended. The man still had his running shoes on. _Talk about dedication_ , she thought.

Slowly she walked to the bathroom. The moment she entered, she wanted to hide in the deepest, darkest corner of the universe, never to be seen again, because she realised she had never gotten the opportunity to clean up between date preparation and Mark coming in to find her something to ease the pain and swelling. The state of the loo was appalling, and despite the urgent need to use the toilet, she felt compelled to pull down all of the clean stockings and bra (her mortification doubled to see it), dump the ashtray into the trash bin, wash the powder out of the sink, put the laundry (pants included, doubling her mortification yet again) into the bin. After satisfying herself that the loo had been restored to a reasonable state of affairs, she settled down to finally take care of business.

Afterwards, as she turned to reach for the handle to flush, there was a firm knock upon the door. "Bridget? Are you all right?"

_Oh God_ , she thought. _Now this on top of all other indignities, he hears me weeing._

"I'm fine," she said, clearing the frog from her throat. "Just getting some more painkillers."

"I'll make some coffee if you have it."

"Yes," she called, still frozen in mid-flushing pose. "It's in the freezer."

A pause of silence. "Freezer?"

"Yes."

Another pause. "And coffee pot?"

"French press. In the cupboard above the breadbox."

"Okay."

She heard him walk away, until at last she felt it safe to depress the handle; she then turned and washed her hands.

"Would you like me to make you something for breakfast?"

Startled, she fumbled for the water to turn it off. "No, that's fine, I'll just have some cereal."

"Okay."

"I'll be out in just a minute," she said, thinking, _Go away!_

"Right."

She thought it wise to actually take an ibuprofen tablet, which she did with a large gulp of water. She also washed her face, brushed her teeth, and combed out her hair. _Not so bad_ , she thought, _and there's something to be said for a man who seems to like you despite looking your worst._

At that last thought, she smiled. He did seem to like her.

She wandered towards the kitchen and found him standing there measuring out spoonfuls of coarse ground coffee into the French press. Seeing him standing there reminded her of the first time she'd seen him on New Year's, before realising he was wearing the ugliest jumper ever made; the track suit was doing little to disguise the fact that he had a pretty nice backside. Undoubtedly at the sound of her uneven footfalls he turned to look at her. She turned her eyes away. "Feeling better, is it?"

She nodded, venturing her gaze towards him again. "Yes. Thank you again for helping last night."

"My pleasure," he said, turning to catch the kettle just as it started to rumble to a near-boil. "It's looking much improved, but I'd still keep it raised."

"Yes."

He tipped hot water into the French press, then popped on the top. He turned with a reluctant smile, running his hand over his hair. "I'll have some coffee then be on my way," he said. "I'm sure I could use a healthy dose of grooming."

He really didn't look terrible. His clothes were a bit wrinkled, his hair was mussed, and he was sporting a hint of stubble, which in all honesty was not in the least bit unattractive. 

"That bad, hm?" he said with a self-effacing grin. "Whatever I looked like last night was probably positively red carpet compared to now."

"No," she said; in retrospect it probably sounded like she was overcompensating. "I mean, all things considered… you look fine."

"'All things considered'?" he asked with a hint of seriousness, but she could tell by the slight dimple in his cheek that he was amused.

"Well," she said. "I caught you in the middle of a jog, then you spent the night twisted up on my chair." 

"Am feeling a bit stiff," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Suppose you're all right now. I'll have some coffee, then jog my way home."

He brought the coffee pot and a couple of clean mugs to the table. He poured some into each of them. She rose and hobbled her way to the fridge for some milk and the sugar pot.

"May I ask you a question?"

She looked at him just as she was pouring milk. Why would he ask if he could ask a question, and not just ask the question? "Yes?" she asked in return.

"Do you like your coffee very light?" His eyes flicked down to her mug.

"What? Oh." She stopped pouring. He chuckled.

"Actually, I meant to ask about last night. The mobile in the dustbin."

She felt her face flush. "It belongs to my friend Tom. I accidentally threw it out with the newspapers."

He laughed lightly. "How did you manage to throw out a mobile with the newspapers and not notice?"

"Must have fallen into the bag with them. I don't know." She sat again, spooning sugar into her coffee. "What about you? Do you run for fun 'round my neighbourhood on Friday nights hoping to encounter dustbin raiders?"

He smiled, glancing down to his black coffee. "I run most nights," he said. "And you do live pretty near to me. Actually… I have another question. If you don't mind, that is."

She was expecting another light-hearted question, at least until he looked to her again; his gaze was darker, more intense, and she suddenly felt a little… well, not uneasy; perhaps 'unsettled' best described the flutter in her stomach. She nodded. "Yes. Fine. Go ahead."

He chuckled again and the tension, whatever it had been, dissipated in an instant. "Please have dinner with me."

She supposed it was technically not a question, but she wasn't about to split hairs. Without a second thought, she smiled and said, "Sure."


	2. Chapter 2

Mark wasn't used to asking women he barely knew to go out to dinner with him; not that it was unheard of, and not that he wasn't used to them saying 'yes', but for some reason asking this particular woman in his particular state of dress and unkemptness made him suddenly worry she might not agree; he was at least worried until she actually did. He felt himself let out a breath he didn't know he was even holding in as he smiled broadly. "Good. _Great_. Tonight?" As he asked, he mentally chastised himself. She had an ankle injury; why would she want to go out and stress it?

"Yes, sure," she said. "Though I'll likely need to keep to flat shoes."

"Or maybe when it's feeling better," he amended, lest she think he was trying to pressure her.

"No, tonight's fine." She smiled again, and he knew it was completely sincere. 

"Great." He drank the rest of his coffee, set the cup down, then looked at her again. "Well. If I head out now I'll look like I meant to go jogging this morning."

She smiled. He chastised himself again, this time for not noticing immediately what a lovely smile she had. "Okay."

"I'll call you."

"I'll give you my number," she said.

He found a pen and a scrap of paper, upon which she wrote her number. He took it, folded it twice, then put it in his pocket along with his wallet and house keys, realising for the first time he'd left his own mobile at home.

"Until then, then."

"Okay. And thanks again for everything."

He nodded. "Don't get up. I'll see myself out." He then departed for the door.

He got to the street to find a fine sunny morning. He should have been mortified to be outside in his present condition, but he was unexpectedly free of concern for anything but the dinner date he found he suddenly had.

He jogged home at a speedy pace, covering the distance in very little time at all. He arrived home to find his answerphone blinking with a '5'. Whatever it was, he thought, it could wait until he'd showered and eaten a proper breakfast.

The phone, however, had other ideas. It rang again.

"Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark, _Christ_. Where have you been?"

He felt his stomach torpedo to a point deep within the earth. Natasha.

"Sorry. I was attending an injured friend."

"Just wanted to confirm tonight, seven o'clock, Banyan on the Thames."

He blinked. Tonight?

"Dinner meeting, remember?"

With her, Jeremy, Giles… "I had forgotten. I'm sorry."

He heard her exhale impatiently. "You were the one who suggested it."

"I know." He pinched the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Yes, yes, that's fine. I'll see you then. Goodbye."

He put his finger on the receiver, then released it again. He pulled the folded paper out of his pocket, then dialled the number on it. He hated to do this, but he thought the sooner he told her, the better. It rang many times before she picked up.

"Bridget Jones," she said in answering the phone. Her voice sounded drowsy. He wondered if she had been trying to go back to sleep.

"Bridget. It's Mark."

"Oh." She was silent for many moments.

"This is going to sound… well. I've just arrived home to some messages and was reminded I already had plans for tonight."

"Plans?" Her voice sounded strained in just that one simple word.

"I…" He really did not want to complete the sentence; he felt bad enough without having to echo that scoundrel Daniel's words. "I have to work."

"You…" She sounded out of breath. "On a Saturday?"

"I know, I know. I completely forgot, and I'm really very sorry. I swear, if I could get out of it, I would. But it's a big dinner meeting that I arranged, it can't be cancelled, and… I'm sorry. Again."

She didn't say anything right away. To his relief, he heard her chuckle a little; perhaps he'd sounded adequately contrite. "I understand."

Quickly he added, "Another time?" He thought to the week ahead and realised between court and meetings, he would not have a free evening for several nights. "Maybe Friday evening?"

"Oh, yes. Sure," she said. "I suppose I could use a little time to recuperate, after all."

He felt very much relieved. "Good. I'm very much looking forward to Friday. Take care of yourself, Bridget."

"I will," she said. "Bye."

"Goodbye."

He returned the phone to the receiver, and sighed. He would much rather have preferred dinner with Bridget than attend this meeting. In fact, it occurred to him he would have preferred painful dentistry over this meeting, but he supposed dulling the pain via dinner in a nice restaurant had been his intent all along.

………

"Bugger."

Bridget knew rationally that she wasn't being blown off, but to have a man call and cancel— _postpone_ , she reminded herself—their date not more than twenty minutes after making it was a hit to the ego.

She pressed the button on the handset to disconnect the call, then decided for the sake of her ankle to bring the cordless handset with her. She hoped to catch a few more hours of sleep, this time in her own comfy bed.

The telephone ringing again woke her from a nap she didn't remember falling into. She raised her head and looked at the clock; it was now after noon. Adrenaline rushed through her—maybe Mark had gotten out of his dinner? Or, oh, what if it was Daniel? But then her confusion and disgust at the news imparted to her the previous evening came back to her in a rush. Daniel might have been a handsome devil, but he was a devil nonetheless, one with no compunction about shagging his best friend's wife under the man's own roof. A crush she'd harboured for so long would not be so easy to let go, though.

She sighed. She did not really want to talk to either at the moment so she briefly thought about letting it roll to answerphone, then decided to take it anyway.

"Bridge! How did it go?"

It took her a moment to realise it was Shazzer. "Hi Shaz," she said, pushing herself to sit up. "It didn't go."

"What? No shagging?"

"No date," she said, throwing the duvet aside to inspect her ankle. It didn't look any worse, but it also didn't look any better. "He said he had to work."

Shaz snorted loudly in disbelief. "A likely story."

"But actually… it might have been for the best."

"Why say that, Bridge?" She could tell her friend was smirking. "Sour grapes?"

"No," said Bridget. "I had an interesting evening last night… with Mark Darcy."

It sounded like Shaz was choking on her morning coffee. "What? The loser with the reindeer-themed jumper at New Year's?"

"One and the same," she said, cringing inside to think she'd ever been so awful about him. "I hurt my ankle digging Tom's mobile out of the trash bin."

Shaz didn't say anything right away. Bridget did not blame her. "The trash bin? Your _ankle_?"

"Mark Darcy happened to be running by—look, why don't you just come over? I don't want to take a shower alone in the flat with my ankle like this."

"I can't _wait_ to hear this story," said Shaz. "Give me twenty minutes."

It gave Bridget a chance to brush her hair and teeth again, splash water on her face and pour herself some cereal in order to eat the breakfast she hadn't eaten earlier. She was halfway through it when the entryphone rang.

It was indeed Shazzer, who came running up the stairs and into the flat. "So what happened?" she asked without preamble. "Hot bod lurking under that jumper?"

Flashing before her eyes, Bridget could only picture his backside as she'd noted that morning. "Actually…"

Sharon's mouth formed an O. "Tell me you did _not_ shag him!"

"No, I did not."

They took a seat on the sofa—it was easier to walk the more she did so, but it still twinged with each step—and then Bridget went through the entire story from seeing him on the street through to making coffee that morning, eliciting gasps of surprise at the revelation regarding Daniel and looks of wonder at the descriptions of Mark's taking care of her. In fact, Bridget could not remember the last time Shaz had been quite so speechless. She decided to wait for a reaction before saying anything about their dinner date.

"Unbe- _fucking_ -lievable," Shaz said, leaning back against the cushion and let out a long, slow breath. "And you're sure it's not Mark who's lying?"

Her head shook in the negative. "I saw his face when he answered my phone and heard Daniel's voice. That wasn't lying."

"Or he's a bloody good actor," said Shaz.

"If he is, he's missed his calling on the West End."

"And he made you supper," she said.

Bridget nodded. 

"And tea. And icepacks." 

Again Bridget nodded.

Shaz whistled, then continued, exaggeratedly breathless, " _And_ he was all sweaty and masculine from running."

She laughed, recalling that indefinable scent she'd liked so much. "Yeah, I guess so."

"If you don't shag 'im," Shaz said, waggling her brows, "I might."

Bridget smiled, chuckling again. The more she thought about it, the more she looked forward to Friday night.

"So let's see this ankle, then."

She leaned back and raised her feet up and into Shaz' lap. Shaz looked from one to the other. "They kind of look the same to me," she said.

"The right one's swollen. Can't you tell?"

Shaz raised a brow. "Not really." She placed her hand on Bridget's right ankle, which made the latter gasp. "Sorry."

"It's still a bit tender."

"Well," she said. "You said something about wanting a shower. I guess the least I could do is make sure you don't fall and bash your head in on the edge of the tub."

"Gosh, thanks."

Bridget ended up having her shower, and it felt fantastic; Shaz kept her company by reading out advice letters from _Cosmo_ in funny posh voices and making her laugh, but the sex talk made her inexplicably think of two very different men: one on whom she'd had a crush for months and months, a crush that'd be hard to shake despite his turning out to be a total fuckwit, and the other who'd appeared suddenly in her life performing an act of kindness not to be believed in this modern age, bedraggled yet tall, dark and handsome. One who called to cancel a date for work on a whim; the other who had to work and seemed utterly sorry to have to do so—

"Bridge, I didn't hear you fall, but you went awfully silent."

"We have a date," she burbled, just as she switched the water off. 

"What? With Mark? Tonight?"

"No," said Bridget with a chuckle, patting herself down with the towel, wrapping it around herself, then pushing the shower curtain aside. "I mean, yes, with Mark, but not 'til Friday. Tonight he, er, had to work."

"What?!" her friend exploded.

"No, Sharon," she replied. "That's the thing. I believe him."

Shaz looked highly sceptical. "You're sure he's not just a bloody good actor?"

She thought about it a moment, then nodded. "I'm sure."

………

The restaurant, nestled within a hotel set upon the Thames, turned out to be sort of posh but understated, but the same could not be said of some of the other clientele, who were overly showy and made-up, men and women alike. The menu was an eclectic mix of different world cuisines; he'd ordered lamb _biryini_ , which turned out to be sumptuously spiced and surprisingly good. He was not disappointed in the wine or the service, either.

Unfortunately, the business at hand had taken far less time than they had all anticipated, which left him wishing he were sitting anywhere than next to Natasha. If ever he needed evidence that she had her eye on him in a wolfish way, that night would have provided all he would have wanted. His prior evening with a woman like Bridget had starkly outlined and underscored Natasha's motives tenfold. To think he had been considering her with interest because of the attention she paid to him, that he might have (it seemed so melodramatic to think in this way) fallen into her clutches, made him feel like he'd just dodged a major bullet.

"Mark," she cooed; Jeremy, Giles, Horatio and the others were deep in conversation about current debates in the more prestigious law journals, given the names that kept getting churned up. "What's on your mind tonight?"

"Nothing." He picked up his wine glass and took a sip. "Actually, that isn't true. I told you I was helping an injured friend last night. I'm just wondering how she's doing."

Natasha's fine brows rose ever so slightly. "'She', hm?" 

He nodded. 

"Not too serious?"

He tried to keep his features stoic at this unmitigated predation. "Excuse me?"

"The injury," she said. "It's not too serious, I hope?"

"Oh," he said. "No. It's not. Twisted ankle."

"Good to hear," she said with blatant insincerity, drinking from her own wine, very smoothly raising a hand to sweep her dark hair back from her forehead with her fingers. "I'd been trying to reach you all night," she went on.

Five messages on the home phone alone, three more on the mobile. He nodded. "Yes, I got your messages."

"I won't apologise for being concerned for you, Mark; in that house of yours all by yourself…" She sipped again, looking through her lashes and smirking. He knew exactly what she was thinking: _I would be thrilled to keep you company, if you know what I mean._

"Thank you for the concern," he said stiffly, "but as you can see, I'm fine." He suddenly wished he'd made up a lie about Bridget, that she was on death's door, that he needed to return to her at once, so he could gracefully leave the dinner party; but at that moment Jeremy turned to him and saved him from further conversation with Natasha, on a far more interesting subject than politics: football speculation.

In the end the evening turned out to be not so bad; he was able to make an earlier escape than he'd first thought by saying he needed to ring Bridget to see how her ankle was doing. On the way to his car he pulled out his phone, intending on doing just that, but realising belatedly he had not programmed her number in. He smiled. He could just do so when he got home.

In so programming his mobile, he realised precisely what that scrap of paper he had grabbed for her number was: a shopping receipt from about a month prior. His eyes skimmed over the list of purchased items. It was quite an interesting snapshot: stockings, lipstick, coffee, _Vogue_ , celery, carrots, chocolate bars, Herbal Essence shampoo, soap, toothpaste, cotton balls, two bags of crisps, disposable razors, day cream… and two boxes of condoms. Although somewhat puzzled, he couldn't help but chuckle; the condom boxes were labelled in the printed receipt as 'novelty' and 'neon sampler'.

………

It was nearing the end of approximately their hundredth viewing of _Thelma and Louise_ over pizza and wine when Bridget's phone rang. She reached for the cordless; Shaz hit pause on the film and barked, "Answerphone."

"What?"

"Let the answerphone get it. If it's Mark I want to hear his voice."

Smugly she held on to the phone. After five rings, the machine kicked in; Mark's voice rang out across the room. As he began to speak, Sharon's expression turned to one of appreciation and approval. She gave Bridget two thumbs up.

"Hello, Bridget; it's Mark. I was just phoning to see how you are, if your ankle's feeling better—"

"I'm answering," announced Bridget. "Behave yourself."

Sharon mimed zipping her lips shut. Bridget hit Talk and the answerphone went off.

"Hi, Mark; sorry I didn't get to the phone right away—left it in the kitchen," she said, her eyes darting to her friend. "Thanks for calling. I've got some ice on again but it's much better."

"I'm glad to hear."

"How was work?" she asked, keeping her eyes on Sharon.

"Dull as dishwater," he said with a sigh; no hesitation, no pause to think up a story. "Put a group full of lawyers at a table and even after business is through, inevitably they start talking law. I would have preferred to be—anywhere but there."

For a moment she was convinced he was going to say 'with you', and adrenaline spiked through her. "I'm sorry," she said. "At least it's over, right?"

"Very true," he said. "What are you doing?"

"My friend Sharon's over and we're watching—a DVD together."

"Oh," he said. "Well, I'm glad there's someone to bring you an icepack."

"Yes," she said with a chuckle.

"Well, won't keep you from your film. See you on Friday."

"What time?" she asked suddenly.

"Um… I'll call back with details."

She smiled. "Okay."

"Goodnight, Bridget."

"'Night, Mark. Goodbye."

She hit the Talk button once more and felt a smile spread across her face. Sharon leapt up to check the incoming caller display, grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper, and began writing furiously. "Got it."

"Got what?"

"His number," she said. "Looks to be a mobile number. Heh."

Unexpectedly the telephone rang once more. Sharon said, "It's Mark again."

She answered. "Hello?"

"Bridget, Mark again. I realised it was terribly rude of me not to give you my own number."

She stifled a chuckle. "Okay."

"Have you got something to write with?"

"Yes."

He read off his number; she repeated it back to him, so that Sharon could verify it was the same number she had already written. Another thumbs-up told her it was. "I'll give you the house number, too, but I'm rarely there."

"Okay. Oh, and I'll give you my mobile, too."

They exchanged alternate numbers, leaving them to say goodnight once more before disconnecting.

Shazzer folded her arms over her chest, smiling smugly. "This is kind of cute," she said. "I feel like we're in lower sixth. Does he like you, or like-you-like-you?"

"Oh, be quiet," said Bridget, feeling her skin flush with the warmth of embarrassment, though felt herself wondering, too. She sat back as Sharon joined her once more on the sofa, and pressed Play on the movie. She could not help but think of Friday night, of seeing Mark for the first time not in horrible holiday-themed clothes (well, presumably, anyway) or a rumpled tracksuit. She was looking forward to it more than she ever thought she could have, given how she'd felt about him before yesterday.

"Wonder what the catch will be?" asked Sharon out of nowhere.

"What?"

"Well, he seems kind of perfect—a little too perfect, if you ask me," said Shaz darkly. "Does he butcher kittens in his free time?"

Bridget burst out with a laugh. "He's a human rights lawyer, Shaz."

"So?" she replied. "Ted Bundy studied law, too." She paused to sip her wine. "Is he weird-looking?"

"No," said Bridget quickly. "Actually… the opposite."

"Hm…" She sat back again, drawing in more wine. "Still, I have to wonder what made his wife want to stray."

"Maybe he was working too much, and Daniel's pretty persuasive," she said, though had to admit she felt a little uneasy at Shazzer's assessment of Mark seeming a little too perfect. "You're not really helping, you know."

"Sorry," said Sharon. "Just trying to bring your head out of the cloud of pheromones potentially affecting your judgment."

Bridget sipped her own wine and also leaned back; oddly, Mark's warning about not having wine with ibuprofen echoed through her head. "I'm fine," she said. "My judgment's fine. My ankle's fine, and I'm going to have a nice time on Friday."

………

Which restaurant to choose was a puzzlement for Mark. He got the impression that anything too posh would make it seem like he was trying too hard, but he wanted to choose a place that was nice and had good quality food.

A rap on his door startled him. Standing there was Magda, a lovely woman with ginger hair who happened to be married to Jeremy. "Hello Magda," he said. "What brings you 'round?"

"The children are in care and I'm free for lunch, so I thought I'd drop in on Jerrers," she said with a smile. "He's just finishing. How are you? You look troubled. Tough case?"

He smiled, looking down. "Nothing that easy. No. I have a date on Friday night and am having a hard time deciding where to make reservations."

Magda came into Mark's office, rubbing her hands together in her delight. "Oooh, a date! Well! That's _exciting_. Tell me about her!"

"Well, she's someone I knew when I was a boy; our parents are friends, but we're only getting reacquainted now as adults. She's a little younger than I am… spontaneous and warm—" He thought specifically of her comforting hug. "—and not afraid to say what she's thinking even at her own expense…. Lovely blue eyes and a winning smile."

Magda smiled then came closer, speaking in a confidential tone. " _Not_ Natasha, hm?"

Mark felt himself smiling too. "No. Not."

"Hmmm. Well, something smaller, I think, a little more cosy. Oh!" she said, seemingly inspired. "How about Italian? A friend of mine was telling me about a little place about which she's heard nice things, called L'Anima. In fact, I suggested to Jeremy we try it ourselves and he's booking us for lunch."

He smiled. _L'anima_ was the Italian word for soul; he took it as a good sign. "That sounds very promising indeed. You'll let me know how it is?"

"Absolutely," said Magda. "I'll send word back up with Jeremy."

Mark ended up having a takeaway sandwich for lunch, working through each bite there in his office as he reviewed court documents for the afternoon. The time seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and before he knew it, Jeremy was arriving back to chambers and popping his head into Mark's office. "Magda told me to tell you it's perfect. Book now."

He nodded, then with a grin reached for the telephone.

………

Bridget was most dreading seeing Daniel when the work week rolled around. Previously he'd always seemed to be everywhere, which she thought would make for some awkward interactions, but as the morning evolved into afternoon, Monday into Tuesday into Wednesday, it became very clear that he'd been everywhere in order to work his charm on her. In a way it hurt to know that his interest had pretty much been in one thing only. However, she supposed it was better to know this before actually sleeping with him.

It was inevitable though that they should come face to face, waiting for the lift on the way out of the building on Wednesday. She found it interesting to note he did not seem to want to look in her direction.

"So," he said quietly. "You know Mark Darcy, do you?"

"Mm-hm."

"Pretty well?"

"I don't see how that's your business at all."

"Just thought it interesting that I ring up the girl with whom I'd only just reluctantly cancelled dinner for work purposes had already found someone to pick up the slack. Never would have expected he'd developed the instincts of a barracuda."

Her resolve wavered a bit until she remembered exactly what Daniel had done to betray his friend. She lifted her chin defiantly. "We ran into one another outside and he was kind enough to help me upstairs after I hurt my ankle. That's all."

"Hm. Well, that does sound more like him. The man's nothing if not chivalrous, like most other men of the eighteenth century," he quipped. The doors parted. They had the lift to themselves, which she was not sure she was all that happy about. He pressed the button for the lobby and the doors closed again.

"He told me about what you did, you know."

"His wife, yes, I'm sure he did," said Daniel, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his jacket. "Look, Jones, I'll admit fault there, but it's not all mine. She practically threw herself at me after being abandoned night after night for casework and dusty law books."

What he said echoed her own fears a little too closely. "And you had no power to resist against your best friend's wife."

"I did say I wasn't blameless," he replied with a rakish grin. "She honestly wasn't even worth it."

She turned to face the brushed steel doors, resolute in saying nothing more to him, even if she did feel a bit more sympathetic. But only a bit.

"Did you agree to go out with him?" Daniel asked.

"Not your business."

"Right." The doors opened. "Well, Jones, when rigor mortis sets in, you're always welcome to let me make up that dinner I had to cancel."

"Good night, Daniel," she said stiffly, striding forward out of the lift and into the lobby. She was angry at him for being so bloody good-looking, and at herself for allowing him to still get to her. She had a date with a handsome man—no, _gentle_ man—on Friday, one who was considerate and kind and truly seemed to like her. Why should she care at all about that bastard Daniel, who had different girls ringing him up every week, if Perpetua were to be believed?

Walking on the bridge on the way home, her mobile began to trill. She dug it out of her bag; the identification window said was Mark.

"Hello," she said.

"Bridget, hi, it's Mark," he said.

"Yes, I know," she said with a little smile.

"Oh, I suppose your phone told you so," he said, chuckling. "How's your ankle?"

"Much better, thanks."

"Just wanted to confirm Friday night's still on." The end of his sentence had a bit of an upward lilt, more like a question than a statement; she thought it sounded hopeful. She smiled.

"Yes, of course."

"Great. _Great_. Shall I pick you up at six-thirty?"

"Yes, that's fine," she said, glancing to her watch; it was ten after five. She would definitely have to leave work early on Friday to have time to get ready.

"Terrific. I'll see you then." After a beat, he asked, "Bridget? Everything all right?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Just tired after a long day at work."

"Well. Have a good night and relax, then."

"I will. See you Friday, six-thirty."

She smiled, feeling more at ease in general; she was inventing trouble where there was none. Mark seemed like a nice man, and he certainly seemed to be looking forward to Friday very much. Daniel was an arse, deliberately trying to plant doubts in her head, probably inventing stories to justify how he'd ended up in bed with Mark's ex-wife.

The mobile rang again before she'd even had a chance to put it away; she glanced to the window and smiled. It was the only one of her friends who was married with children. Her smile faded, though, as it dawned on her it was probably a teething or potty training update…

"Hi, Mags," said Bridget.

"Hey Bridge! Just had a bit of good news for you. That restaurant you told me about? I just _had_ to report back to you that it was _excellent_."

"Oh," she said uncertainly. "That's good to hear."

"Oh, don't sound so crestfallen, Bridge," her friend replied. "Next time I have a free afternoon, I'll take you there to thank you for the recommend."

Bridget knew her intentions were good, and tried not to hear the offer as a pity date. "Thanks, Magda. That's sweet."

"Well, you sound like you're in traffic or something, and Harry's teasing Constance, so I won't keep you. Just wanted to say hello. Talk to you soon!"

She disconnected abruptly. Bridget stowed the phone back into her bag, continuing to walk, wishing she'd had a chance to tell Magda about her date on Friday. Her thoughts rolled back to the date; she'd definitely need to leave work early, because with her ankle still out of sorts it was taking her twice as long to get home. _Maybe a taxi home,_ she thought. _And what in the world am I going to wear?_

She spent all of Wednesday night picking through her closet and coming to the eventual conclusion that nothing was going to be suitable. She obviously wanted to look nice, but everything either wasn't quite right or seemed to say she was struggling to impress. She needed something elegant and understated.

The following night she found the answer to her problem when she wasn't even trying. Walking home from work she took a slightly different route due to utility work, and in doing so passed by a storefront that made her do a double-take. There in the window was a lovely little black dress; it had a classic cut and was eminently stylish, yet still looked like something she could be completely comfortable in.

She went into the store immediately. It was a sign that they had one left in her size. She tried it on and beamed at her reflection; it was hard to believe but it looked even better on. Certainly it was a world apart from her New Year's outfit.

And ankle be damned… this was an occasion that called for heels.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, this is the part that warrants the rating.)

Eager to begin his evening, Mark had left work early on Friday, but even still, it didn't take him long to get ready. It rarely did. He went directly home, had a quick shower and shave to rejuvenate himself, then dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers. A quick check of the clock revealed it was barely five-thirty. He reasoned that with traffic as unpredictable as it could often be, it would not hurt at all to give himself some travel time.

Traffic was not too bad for rush hour on a Friday, and he made the journey in just about half an hour. As he put the car into park, it suddenly occurred to him that he should have brought something nice for her, like… well, all he could think of was a bunch of flowers. He was still early yet, however, and with such close proximity to Borough Market, he decided to take a little walk down to see if he couldn't find someone selling something suitable.

The market itself was about to close and most of the stores in the neighbourhood were shuttered up for the night, but he managed to find a florist that hadn't quite closed up yet, one that had a staggering array of flowers (in his opinion) for early February. There was the standard flower shop fare—tulips, roses and lilies—as well as other flowers he could not so easily identify, filling little buckets on every shelf. What caught his attention, however, was a spray of pale purple and white flowers with an unusual, delicate beauty and a most attractive fragrance. The florist advised they were freesia. A smile spread over his features and he nodded; these were the flowers for Bridget. He bought a bunch, and the florist put it together in a lovely decorative wrapper and tied a white ribbon around it.

He walked back over to her building and with an inexplicable flutter in his stomach pressed the buzzer corresponding to her flat. Within a few minutes he heard her voice echoing out of the speaker, faint and tinny.

"Yes?"

"It's Mark."

There was a short silence. "Oh, hi. You're a little early."

He glanced to his wristwatch. It was about twenty-seven past six. It had occurred to him to allow a little wiggle room, but he hardly thought three minutes was early. "Sorry."

"No, no, that's okay. I just lost track of time. I'm almost ready, just need to find my shoes. Come on up." He heard the lock release and he reached over to tug the handle. After that short trip up, he rapped upon her door. "Hold on, be right there."

He heard her footsteps coming down the short flight to the door, and shortly thereafter it swung open. He don't know how long it actually was until he blinked; though it was probably a matter of seconds, it felt like he stared at her for an unreasonably long time, taking in every detail about her appearance: the dress, onyx in colour and simple yet alluring in cut, made of a soft, flowing fabric, its tailored waist and generous scoop neck evidencing the lovely curves of her body; the silver necklace with its sinuous heart pendant; her blonde hair brushed and curling softly at the bottom as it swept along her shoulders; but most of all it was her eyes and her smile that took hold of his focus, both of which indicated she was pleased to see him, and perhaps appraising him much like he was appraising her.

She looked absolutely ethereal.

"Hello," he said at last, finding his voice.

"Hi," she said somewhat quietly.

"You look very nice." It was an understatement, to be sure, but he did not wish to seem overly eager.

"Thank you." They both stood there, he at the door, she on the lowest step, looking at one another until she cleared her throat, her brow momentarily wrinkling. "Um. Come on up. I'll find something for those—they're lovely."

He had completely forgotten about the flowers in his hand. "Ah, yes. For you." He gave them to her.

She chuckled as she accepted them. "I sort of figured." She examined the pretty blooms, then raised her gaze to him again before bringing the bunch close to her face to take in a deep sniff, closing her eyes briefly as she did. "Oh, they smell _wonderful_. Thanks. Come up, I'll just put these in water, put on my coat and we can go." She then headed back up the stairs. His eyes fixed on her stocking-clad calves as she retreated up into the flat, noting too that she was wearing high-heeled shoes, which startled him given her recent injury. He shook his head, willing himself to snap out of his trance, and followed her up. 

If only he hadn't been so judgemental on New Year's… 

……… 

Bridget reached up into the cupboard in search of a flower vase, but her thoughts were distinctly scattered. When she'd flung open the door to see him standing there in his overcoat, suit jacket and pale ivory dress shirt visible between the panels of wool, with a gorgeous little bouquet of freesia in hand, he looked so attractive she could not in that moment recall what that jumper on New Year's Day had even looked like. He was back to being impeccably groomed, too, his hair and sideburns tidy, his cheek smooth-looking. Had she been so blinded by that reindeer monstrosity (and the remnants of her own hangover) that she had not taken notice of all of this before? To her credit, though, he had been quite standoffish on that day, his expression hard and unpleasant, his demeanour impatient; tonight was entirely different, with his slight, almost shy smile, his shining brown eyes as he looked at her with—

"Do you need a hand getting something down?"

She spun around at the sound of his voice. His hands were in his coat pockets and he was glancing up into he cupboard. "Yes," she said. "If you don't mind, there's a suitable vase on the top shelf. I'm a bit taller in the shoes but I still can't reach, and we saw what happened the last time I climbed up on something."

With a smirk, he strode over and without effort reached up and plucked the vase from the shelf. Instead of handing it to her, though, he went to the sink and filled it with water. "Allow me," he said, holding his hand to her. She gave the flowers back to him, and as she did, her fingers brushed against his, veritably sparking a charge up her arm.

It was going to be a very interesting night.

With a reluctance that was obvious even to her, he broke their gaze to untie the ribbon binding the stems, then placed the flowers into the vase. As he did, she said, "I'll get my coat and we can leave."

She walked over to where her coat was resting over the banister overlooking the door to her flat, could hear him just behind her. "Let me help you with that, too." His hand overtook hers and picked up the coat; as if well-practised habit he opened it and held it up for her with a smile.

"Thank you." She slipped in her left arm, then her right; felt him lift the coat up onto her shoulders then drop it down, then slide along her shoulders as if to smooth down the fabric. The manoeuvre also seemed out of habit but was to her incredibly seductive.

"Shall we, then?" he said from behind her.

She turned to look up at him. "Yes," she said. "I'll get my purse."

After picking up her small clutch, they left the flat. "You're okay, your ankle?" he asked. She nodded. "It's probably best I go first; that way I can catch you if you fall."

It was a tempting offer, to be honest, but erring on the side of caution she took the stairs slowly so as not to inadvertently irritate her injury. Once at the bottom of the stairs and outside the building he guided her towards his car, which was sleek and silver.

He opened the door for her. She was not surprised, yet pleased.

As they drove away, he said, "You look very nice, indeed."

"Thank you again," she said with a little chuckle, glancing to him and his studied concentration on the road. "You look pretty nice yourself."

She watched him smile. "Thank you. We clean up pretty well, don't we?" He shifted his gaze to her for a moment to meet her eyes; the intensity of that look caused her to direct her eyes away.

"We do."

After a moment, he said, "You're kind of taking a risk there, you know."

She looked to him again to see he was smiling playfully. "What?" she asked suspiciously.

"Heeled shoes when you have such a history of bad luck with high places. Really, you should know better."

She chuckled, settling back into the seat. "Very funny," she said. "They aren't that high."

Within short order Mark was smoothly parking kerbside and switching off the engine. "I've heard good things about this place," he said, "so I do hope you like it."

"I hope so too," she said.

He pushed his door open; she went to open hers as well, but he told her to wait, that he'd come around and help her out "for the sake of your foot." She had to admit she liked the courtesy, even though Shaz would have probably considered it insulting to feminism. _Nothing wrong with courtesy and gentleman-like behaviour_ , she thought. _Chivalry is not dead._

She could not help smiling when he extended his elbow to her; she slipped her hand through, feeling herself blush a little, and they then began walking. When she saw the name on the windows of the restaurant, she lost her step.

L'Anima. The restaurant she'd talked to Magda about.

Lightning fast his hand raised up and was at the her waist to catch her should she fall. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. "Is it your ankle?"

"No," she said, still feeling quite stunned. "It's just…" _Surprising that you're psychic_ was what she wanted to say, but thought it might send the wrong impression on their first real date. "…I've wanted to go here since they opened."

He tried not to look too smug about scoring such a win, but was not entirely successful. "Now I can only hope it lives up to your expectations."

She thought of Magda's words of praise, and believed it would not take much to do that.

They were a few minutes late for the reservation, apparently, so they decided to forgo pre-dinner drinks in the bar area. Their coats were collected and they were seated quickly in a corner table, away from the window and close to the beautifully textured reddish-purple stone wall. She wondered if he had asked for it specially to give them a little added privacy. With a gracious nod the hostess stepped away to give them time to peruse the menu.

The atmosphere was warm, the lighting low, with tasteful white pillar candles on each table. Their waiter was very attentive, helping them to choose a starter dish, _burrata_ _di Andria_ with black truffle and chestnut honey. Her eyes grazed over the menu selection for the main courses and grill items; everything sounded marvellous as described, if a touch more expensive than she was anticipating.

"Ohh," Bridget said, setting the menu down.

"What's the matter?"

"Decision-making crisis," she confessed. "It all looks incredibly good."

He chuckled. "I'm sure our server will be happy to help us decide. I'm not as familiar with the cuisine of this region, so it's an adventure for both of us."

With a little guidance from the waiter, she chose a pasta dish, wild mushroom fettuccine with Norcia black truffle.

"And for you, sir?"

He looked up from the menu and at Bridget again. "What do you think, Bridget?"

She glanced down again, her eyes racing over the options there. "How about… the beef _tagliata_?" she asked, meeting his gaze, hoping he was a fan of beef and of sheep's cheese.

"That sounds delicious," Mark said, setting the menu down. "Thank you."

With a nod, the waiter advised the sommelier would be there presently for their wine order, then left. Before they'd had a chance to begin conversing again the sommelier came by, advised on a wine suitable for both dishes, then departed again to retrieve it.

Left on their own at last, Mark looked across the table at her, a pleasant, pleased expression on his face. He relaxed back into the chair a little, letting out a slow breath. "I'm really glad we got the opportunity to start again," he said.

"I'm glad you got the opportunity to see me without curlers in my hair and—" She stopped, embarrassed at the memory of how she looked that night, but he seemed all too willing to supply the rest.

"Dressed in a towel," he said with a grin. "Yes, and I was no better in my running clothes—and not even the nicest ones I have, at that."

She laughed. She liked that he was poking fun at himself to make her feel better. "So what was the story with that jumper on New Year's?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "It was a present from my mother. She seems to have this impression that because once, when I was a small child, I had a jumper that I adored with a tin soldier embroidered here—" He patted just over his jacket's breast pocket with the flat of his hand. "—that I will equally love all Christmas-themed jumpers, ties, socks, et cetera, even as I approach forty at a galloping pace."

She couldn't help herself from laughing. "And you had to wear it."

"Well, yes. I didn't want to hurt her feelings." He paused for a moment. "What about you? Is that outfit of yours a favourite?"

"In all honesty, I have no idea where that _thing_ came from," she said. "Perhaps it was my mother's in the fifties. I don't know what possessed me to agree to wear it. Probably didn't want to… hurt her feelings, either. And… well… it's also possible that I wanted to cut off my nose to spite my face." He furrowed his brow. "She'd talked you up so much maybe I thought I'd just show her a thing or two and…"

"Sabotage your chances with yet another awful setup?"

He at least seemed to understand it was nothing personal against him. "Yes, I suppose so," she admitted. At that moment, a paralysing thought overtook her, and she felt her expression pale. Before he had a chance to ask, she asked him, "Tell me, Mark: did you tell your mum about this date?"

"Ah," he said; at that moment the sommelier returned with the wine, opening the bottle for them and pouring a glass for each, interrupting the conversation until he was gone again. "Actually, I did not. I thought it might be nice to pretend we don't have caring yet overbearing mothers trying to arrange our social lives for us."

At that she giggled. "Oh, God. Neither did I. Plus…" She bit her lower lip, reluctant to continue. 

"What?"

She felt the heat flare up in her cheeks again, and she stared into her wine. "Well, if everything ended up going sideways, then I'd never have heard the end of it for ruining things."

He regarded her thoughtfully, sipping his drink before speaking. "I can't imagine things going sideways," he said seriously.

………

Mark watched that faint blush colour her cheeks again. He'd meant it, though; she was so friendly and down-to-earth, so incredibly easy to talk to and so genuine in personality he already felt it would be as natural as breathing to trust her with anything.

"I'm glad you think so," she said, raising her eyes again, a hesitant smile playing across her lips again. The waiter returned just then with their starters, and placed a plate before each of them.

"Oh, my," said Bridget. "That looks so rich."

The little roundel of cheese—a specialty mozzarella with a thin crust and a creamy centre, topped with that truffle/honey glaze—indeed looked rich and very delicious. He picked up his fork and knife and cut into it, quickly discovering the cheese had earned the name of 'buttery' for very good reason.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She nodded, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her table napkin. "Delicious. Definitely not for the everyday, though."

"Agreed," he said. "Special occasions only."

"Mm," she said in what he interpreted was assent.

They finished their appetisers, sipped at their wine; without a word the waiter came to take away their plates. She was holding her wine glass slightly aloft, staring at it and inadvertently into the candlelight; he was himself transfixed at the golden highlights in her hair, her darkened lashes fanning out over her cheek until she looked up and at him quickly. "What?"

He shook his head a little. "Nothing at all. I was just contemplating books," he lied smoothly. "So you work in publishing. That must be fascinating."

"More specifically, publicity," she said. "And not usually. Just trying to push books that would be better served lining birdcages."

At that he laughed. "Surely they're not all bad."

"No, you're right; I'm being unfair," she said. "It's just this one we're driving so hard right now, with all its buzz and attention, is really the biggest piece of trash. Honestly: _Kafka's Motorbike_? What does that even mean? He never even explains it in the book. Pretentious rubbish."

He felt himself laughing lightly as he reached for his wine; her candour was so very refreshing. "I'll know not to believe any of the hype when I see it on the shelves," he said wryly.

She set the wineglass down. "What about you? Defending the downtrodden and repressed, I hear?"

He nodded. "The work is rewarding and I am thankful for the successes I have—but I would prefer not to discuss it out of the courtroom."

" _Oh_. I'm sorry," she said, looking a bit taken aback; he realised it might have been a little abrupt of him to dismiss the subject like that.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything but that the subject matter is just not often pleasant, and this is too nice of an evening to spoil."

"Ah," she said, smiling again. "Well, do you at least like what you do?"

"Yes," he said.

"And you're brilliant at it." He was confused at such a matter-of-fact statement from her, particularly when she had likely never known a thing about any of his cases, and she did not seem the type to lay on excessive flattery. His expression must have altered accordingly, because she added quickly, flushing again, "Well, that's what my mum said. She was very persistent about you. 'He's simply brilliant, darling!' You know."

He smiled again, chuckling a little as she slipped into a perfect imitation of her mother's voice. "That's what I've been told. I just try to give every case one hundred percent."

"Probably means long hours," she said, looking pensive.

"Sometimes," he said. He'd learned his lesson in that regard. "The downside of giving one hundred percent."

"I suppose, though I bet your clients appreciate your hard work. I know I would."

She was looking at him with such earnestness, her blue eyes wide, that he did not reply right away; no false praise at all. He could only gaze upon her in what was probably a stupid silence until she looked away as dinner arrived at the table. "Yes," he said at last.

The beef dish she had chosen for him looked exquisite in its presentation and smelled delectable. Her pasta dish looked equally appetising. They were both quiet as they each tucked into their food, as their wineglasses were topped up by the waiter with more of that excellent vintage.

"This is really good," she said. "How is yours?"

"Very tender and quite delicious," he said, cutting off another piece.

After a beat, she said, "I'm glad to know that all of the good things I'd heard were true."

He looked up at her, and with the way she was now regarding him, he had no idea if she was referring to the restaurant or to him. He decided he didn't much mind at all if it were the latter, and without hesitation held her gaze and smiled tenderly. "Me too."

They continued to eat their respective dishes; he kept stealing glances at her, and kept catching her doing the same. He liked the way things were going; not sideways, at all.

"I wanted to ask you about something," she said, twirling the last bits of fettuccine around the tines of her fork. It sounded so serious he was immediately concerned. "It's something my mother kept mentioning, and I've been a little too embarrassed to ask." She stopped, ate the pasta, and looked at him again.

He suddenly wondered if she was going to ask about Daniel and his ex-wife, a strange subject for a date to be sure. "Please. Feel free," he said.

"Well, it's about the… paddling pool. Was I really running around—What's so funny?"

He had begun chuckling. "Yes, you really were running around with no clothes on. You were only four, I believe. It was my eighth birthday party."

"I must have been a terror," she said, a blush staining her cheeks again as she glanced down shyly. 

"You were an adorable, spirited child…." He trailed off, his gaze fixed on her. An adorable, spirited child who'd grown up to be a lovely, vivacious woman, one with whom he liked spending time very much indeed.

The touch of her fingers on the back of his hand surprised him, but not as much as the fact that his own hand had reached to cover hers first without conscious thought on his part. She was stroking the skin gently, then looked up again and smiled; it was such a beautiful, bright smile that he felt himself quite lucky indeed to have gone out running when he had that night a week ago.

The appearance once more of the waiter caused him to sit upright and retreat his hand from the embrace of hers. Dinner plates were whisked away.

"Care for dessert?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. He was glad to hear it; he did not want the night to be over just yet.

He decided on _panna_ _cotta_ with a sauce of pomegranate and _grappa_ ; she ordered _gianduia_ cake with _fior_ _di latte_ ice cream, on which she seemed particularly keen when she learned it was a chocolate-hazelnut cake. They both ordered coffee to go with it, then were left in peace once more.

"This has been a real treat. Thank you," she said.

"My pleasure, Bridget." He did not want to be impatient or overly eager, but he wished very greatly to take her hand again.

Plating dessert seemingly took no time at all; their dessert and coffee arrived very shortly thereafter. His _panna_ _cotta_ was a typical white cream caramel with a tangy fruit sauce; the joyous expression on her face, however, as her cake was placed before her was one that would stick in his memory for some time to come: her smile broadened and her eyes, raising from her cake up to him, were sparkling with delight.

"Oh, Mark, this looks absolutely divine," she said in a reverent tone. "It's almost too beautiful to eat."

He swore he had not laughed so much in one evening in years, and he found himself doing so again under his breath. "You didn't order it to stare at it. Might as well enjoy it." He dug the spoon into his own dessert, then brought it to his lips.

The plating of her cake was an interesting presentation; the triangular slice of cake had been divided into two parts and set on wedge end, pointing up into the air, with the ice cream in a little scoop between them. She picked up her spoon and apparently was forming a plan of attack on exactly how to contend with her dessert. She went for the wider point and took the tip off as well as a bit of the ice cream, then looked to him; as she brought it to her lips, it seemed like she might question him about why he was staring at her. Then her expression changed. The taste of the cake itself must have been so overwhelmingly delicious that she forgot whatever chastisement she was about to deliver, closed her eyes, and made a sound of approval as she drew the spoon back out.

The entire scene was incredibly sensual. He picked up his coffee and took a drink, averting his eyes to his own dessert.

"That has got to be," she began in that same reverent tone, "the most amazing thing I have ever eaten."

"No exaggeration there," he quipped.

"Oh, I thought dinner was the most amazing thing I'd ever eaten, but this, _wow_. Hands down the best." He looked up again to see her with coffee in hand. "How's the blancmange?"

He smiled again. "It's better than any blancmange I've ever had," he said. "The sauce is pleasantly tart, and the _grappa_ adds a subtle hint of flavour."

"What's _grappa_ , anyway?"

"It's a sort of brandy."

"Oh. Well. I'll bet it's not better than this."

"You're welcome to a taste."

She smirked. "Okay." She reached across the table and took a wobbly little edge of it off with her spoon, dragged it through the sauce, then brought it to her mouth. The reddish pomegranate sauce lingered on her lips for a moment before her tongue peeked out to lick it away. "Not bad," she declared. "It's not chocolate, of course, but it's not bad. Want to try mine?"

"Sure." He reached his spoon over and took the back corner of her cake as well as some ice cream. It was indeed very delicious, even if he was not as crazy about chocolate as she.

"What do you think?"

"I think you made an absolutely astounding choice."

………

She rather thought she had, as well… in more than just matters of dessert. She let the subject drop, as she could tell he had enjoyed its taste as well, and she drank from her coffee, content with watching him return his spoon to his own dessert; particularly she watched his fingers, long and lean and very smooth, manoeuvre the spoon from the plate to his mouth. 

She returned then to her cake, light, delicious and practically melting in her mouth, the ice cream velvety and sweet and a perfect complement to the cake. Everything that night had been utterly delicious to the point of decadence, all of it so rich and—

"Oh!" she uttered suddenly, dropping the spoon against the plate, visibly startling Mark.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she said; thinking quickly, not wanting to admit her alarm was caused by the realisation that everything she'd eaten tonight collectively had more calories than she should have eaten in a week, she said, "just a little pain in my foot. I'll be fine."

He looked at her with continued concern. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, smiling widely. "Yes, of course."

She finished the cake and ice cream— _no point in letting it go to waste, for what it cost_ , she reasoned—and nursed the rest of her coffee while he settled the bill. "I insist," he said pre-emptively.

The little white lie about her foot turned out to have been a good move on her part; it seemed to her as if it had given him an excuse to keep in contact with her, which she did not mind in the least. As they left the restaurant, his hand hovered at her waist as if she might tumble over at any moment; for the walk back to the car his arm came up around her, his hand staying at her shoulder.

He opened the door and helped her get settled into the car, then without a word went to the driver's side, slipped in, started the car and pulled away from the kerb. From the direction the car took, he was heading back to her flat.

She resolved to ask him up for a nightcap.

"I've had a lovely time tonight, Mark," she said, turning her head to look at him as he drove. "Thank you again."

"And you are again welcome," he said, "but there's no need to keep thanking me." He glanced over to her and delivered another one of his intense little looks in that very short space of time. "Your company is thanks enough."

She really hoped he liked Irish cream whiskey.

He found a place to park near to her building. Before she had a chance to ask if he wanted to come up, he said, "I'll help you upstairs."

"That'd be nice, thank—well, you know." She giggled.

She saw the corner of his mouth pull into a smile too.

As he had the night she'd hurt herself, he helped her up the stairs with his arm around her waist, and just as she had been that night she was surrounded by his scent; while the cologne was at the forefront this time (subtle; he had not marinated in it), the undertones of _him_ were most definitely there. 

As they got to the top landing, she fished into her clutch for her key, hoping he would just follow her in under the pretence of making sure she didn't further hurt herself. When she turned the key in the door and pushed it open, she looked to see he had stayed back from the door, his hands in his coat pockets. "Would you like to come in?" she asked.

"Thank you, but I shouldn't," he said, which completely surprised her.

"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed even to her own ears.

He strode forward; even with her wearing heels, he still seemed to tower over her. He placed his hand upon her shoulder, turning her to face him. "Goodnight, Bridget."

"Goodnight—"

She was interrupted by his lips suddenly touching hers in a traditional goodnight kiss; a surge of that sparkling attraction rushed through her and perhaps a little too impulsively she raised on her toes a little to return the kiss. Everything seemed a contradiction after that, somehow moving too slowly and too quickly at the same time: his hands took hold of her waist as he kissed her delicately again and again, pulling her to him; her own hands came to rest on his shoulders.

However, before things could progress, he pulled himself to his full height. "Your ankle's fine, isn't it?" he asked, his voice somewhat gravelly.

She nodded, her gaze fixed to his own.

"Perhaps…" he began, looking into her flat. "Perhaps I could come in."

She went inside, he directly behind her, and as she climbed the stairs she was met by the pleasant scent of freesia; the memory of the flowers he'd brought made her smile. She heard him carefully close and lock the door, heard his footfalls on the stairs up into the flat as she took off her coat. "Do you like Bailey's?" she asked, dropping it to hang over the banister as she always did.

"Well enough," he replied, slipping out of his own, lying it on the banister next to hers.

Carefully she stepped out of her shoes because she did not want to inadvertently twist and reinjure her ankle. She was surprised by the feel of his hand on her shoulder; in stocking feet she spun around and looked up into his eyes.

"I don't want Bailey's, though," he said quietly. Her heart hammered in her chest again as he raised his hand to her face, brushing his fingers along her cheek gently, before bowing down and placing his lips on hers once more.

This time he was not quite so cautious; with fingers tracing along her jawline, he was quick to cover her mouth with his for a long, thorough, proper kiss. He was gentle yet insistent with first his lips, then his tongue. Her head spun a bit with the sensation. _Be careful, Bridget, it's only a first date_ , said the angel on her right shoulder. _Let things go where they will_ , said the devil on her left; _he's mum-approved, after all._

Raising up on her toes she brought her hands up and combed her fingers into his hair; his response was to take her in his arms and pull her close to him. She then drew her fingers down over his cheek, to his neck then to his shoulders. He only became more insistent, which she easily and happily matched, until he began placing kisses on her cheek, then buried his face into her hair. She could feel his lips just below her earlobe; her head tipped to the side, and quickly she felt him take advantage of the newly exposed skin there, his teeth grazing along her neck gently as his hands went down over her back to settle on her arse.

She sighed. Sod the angel.

It was fortunate for her that he already knew where her room was; he was able to bend, catch her under her knees, and literally sweep her off of her feet and into his arms. Carrying her thus he strode quickly towards the back of the flat, hardly pausing from kissing her; she thought fleetingly it was a miracle that he didn't land both of them in a pile on the floor.

Her breath escaped her in a rush as she landed on the bed; quickly he was beside her, his hand racing up her leg, over her hip then up and over her breast. She whispered his name as he kissed her again.

………

It had all happened so quickly; one moment he was outside the flat, demurring coming in, the next he was carrying her off to her darkened bedroom. In that moment, though, when he realised she had exaggerated her injury aching for only one purpose he could discern… instinct had taken over. He liked her, he was attracted to her, he wanted her, and he knew then that she seemed to feel the same, evidenced when she had returned his kiss with such enthusiasm.

Now, lying on the bed beside her, pressing his hand into her breast, eliciting a throaty sigh sounding distinctly like his name, he knew he had not misinterpreted.

The shedding of clothing was anything but graceful, but it served its purpose; she was in short order stripped down to lacy underclothes, which he would relish removing from her curvy, luscious body. No sooner had he unhooked the front clasp than he was drawing his fingers over then placing his lips upon her breast, moving them over her nipple, his own bare skin up against hers. She arched up, moaning, raking her nails over his shoulder as he drew the hard bead at the very tip up gently between his teeth. Her skin was soft beneath his hand as it roamed down her side and over her abdomen, fingertips touching along the elastic of her pants before insistently pushing them down over her hip. She hastened to assist in this endeavour, lifting herself up so that he could tug them all the way down and off.

As he returned to kiss her mouth again, his lips playing along hers, his tongue teasing her just as her own worked to tease him, he knew that he would not be able to wait much longer to have her. He was achingly aroused just from kissing her, and pressing himself up against her was not helping matters at all. With her fingers tracing down his back and over his hip, he twitched forward, driving futilely against her thigh.

"In the drawer," she whispered throatily.

In the dim room, he fumbled to the side, yanking open the top drawer of her nightstand, reaching in and feeling the telltale shape and plastic texture of a condom packet beneath his fingertips. Rapidly he grabbed one, tore open the packet and, with as much care as he could manage in his state, put it into place.

With this accomplished he turned back to her, pulling himself over her then kissing her again. Braced up with one arm, he ran his free hand down along her side and up under her thigh; she lifted her knee, arching up again, making another soft sound.

He traced his fingers over her stomach; he heard her gasp as he drew them between her legs. If he'd had any doubts at all about her attraction to him or that she wanted him, they would have been dispelled in that instant.

He could restrain himself no more. Guided by his fingers and with a thrust forward, he felt her warmth surround him; she groaned and tipped her head back, her fingernails raking on his back and to the valley of his spine as he claimed her mouth once more. Braced on his forearms, his fingers tangled in her hair, he moved back then forward again in an ever-quickening rhythmic pace.

In daily life he had already learned she did not have easy rein on the words that came out of her mouth; he should have therefore guessed intimate situations would be no different. She cried out her pleasure, begged him to go harder or faster, the whimper in her voice fuelling him on until his climax overtook him; he thrust one last time forward and buried his face in her neck, her perfume only heightening his ecstasy as he came.

He tried to collect his breath as well as his thoughts; he did not want to leave her unsatisfied, but he was quickly succumbing to the inevitable fatigue that followed such exertion. Carefully he moved from her and to the side; she pushed herself over and ran her hand over his chest and down over his arm, kissing him again.

"Just a little more," she whispered, taking his hand in hers, moving it down between her legs. She groaned as he stroked her there, cried out as he found that highly charged nerve core. Within a few moments, she was bucking into him, digging her nails into his shoulder. Propping himself up a little on his elbow, he kissed her throat, her collarbone, then down and over her breast once more; it was when he took her nipple between his teeth again that she cried out loudly, shuddering under his touch. He dipped his fingers into her, could feel her coming, and with a smile he kissed her again, long and slow and languorous as he continued pleasuring her.

When she sighed and fell back slack against the mattress, he brushed his hand over her hip, gathered her into his arms, then pulled the heap of blankets over them. He could keep his eyes open no longer, and it was while delivering a series of small kisses to her mouth and cheek that he was overcome by sleep.

It was a deep, peaceful slumber, one of utter contentment; it was not until the sun began to rise and the light levels brightened ever so slightly that he roused at last. It was then and only then that he began to doubt himself and his actions of the night before. What had he been thinking, sleeping with her already? Had it been such a good idea after only one dinner date? He had not been in the least bit disappointed—quite the opposite, truth be told—but it was very unlike him to have taken a woman to bed so quickly. He felt as if he had somehow taken advantage of her. He let out a long breath, looking down to where she slept beside him, curled up facing him, her hair tousled and wild, her lips full and parted, her lashes on her cheek. Even now he felt his desire for her building.

 _Dammit_ , he thought. _You're supposed to have control of yourself, Darcy._

He thought it wise to get up and away from her, maybe go to the loo and splash some water on his face, maybe make some coffee. His best laid plans were ruined, however, when he pushed back the duvet. 

"What the hell?!" he shouted involuntarily.

This had the unfortunate side effect of waking her in a most precipitous fashion. "Mark!" she said, pushing herself upright. "What is it—?" She, however, had spotted what he had seen. "Oh, God. I am so sorry. I bought them on a lark…" She dissolved into giggles even as she flushed deep crimson. "I'm sorry."

He had discovered quite by accident that she had put the novelty condoms in her bedside table. He met her gaze and found he could not help laughing, either.

"I'm going to just… er. Get rid of this." He swung his legs around and off of the bed. 

"Yes. Not a bad idea."

He had just thrown his discard into the waste basket when he felt the bed behind him shift. Thinking perhaps she needed the loo herself he moved out of her way, but more quickly than he could react her hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed. She was smiling rather impishly in that moment before she kissed him. She then climbed over him, her full breasts pressed up against him, her hands taking his and holding them down on the pillows to either side of his head.

"Can't use a new one with an old one there, after all," she murmured. "And I promise this time it won't be neon yellow."

Any doubts or guilt he'd suffered about the night before evaporated in that moment. This time, with her on top, he had the pleasure of her coming first.

………

 _Never judge a book by its cover_ , she reminded herself again shortly after falling into his arms following a most spectacular round of shagging, kissing him passionately and running her fingers through his hair. Most pleasantly winded, she reared up and looked down into his eyes with a smile. _And this book may well need re-binding by the time I'm done with it. Ding-dong, indeed._

"I'm starting to think my mother might just be the most brilliant woman who ever lived," he said quietly.

She chuckled. "I could never admit such a thing to my mother. In fact, I'm not sure I can ever tell her about us." _'Us.' Surely not too soon to think in terms of 'us'?_ she thought, worried for a moment until he started to laugh too.

From the other room she could hear her telephone ringing. "Sod it," she said.

"I was about to suggest the same thing," he said, assailing her throat with a round of new kisses.

"Bridget! Guess what, darling!" came her mother's voice so loudly that at first Bridget was terrified the woman had actually broken into her flat; as she went on, though, she realised it was her mother on the answerphone. "I'm down at your Coins Café, and well, since things obviously aren't going to stick with Malcolm and Elaine's Mark… I've got a lovely young man coming here to meet you, an _engineer_ , darling, isn't that—"

She did not hear the rest of what her mother said for the laughter that had overtaken the both of them. "I think, Bridget," he said, tilting his head back, "that you'd better break the news to your mum that things might just stick with Malcolm and Elaine's Mark after all."

She took advantage of his exposed throat to plant some kisses there. "Well, I don't know," she said teasingly. "Maybe I should have a look at this engineer fellow first… maybe he's got a great big… _slide rule_."

At that he spun the both of them over, promptly obliterating all thoughts of the engineer and his slide rule.

………

Oddly, for Daniel's commentary and Sharon's voicing of her own fears, Mark rarely stayed late at work, showing most nights at her flat right on time for supper and a night by the fire. She asked him about it once and only once, curled up against him as they reclined on the sofa.

"Why should I carry on with work," he murmured in response, "when I have this to look forward to?"

That was a good enough answer for her.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [How to tell the difference between an ankle break and a sprain.](http://www.ehow.com/how_2050860_tell-difference-between-ankle-sprain.html)
> 
> [Banyan on the Thames](http://www.timeout.com/london/restaurants/reviews/22445.html), a real restaurant. Review certainly inspired my description.
> 
> [L'Anima](http://www.lanima.co.uk) is a real restaurant… let's pretend it was open all those years ago! :D
> 
> [Gianduia cake](http://theboywhoatetheworld.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/gianduja-cake-with-fior-di-latte-ice-cream.jpg) as described, as served at L'Anima.
> 
> [A review](http://www.squaremeal.co.uk/restaurants/london/view/101184/L%27anima) of L'Anima.


End file.
